To Put One's Pieces Back Together
by DrawnToTheRhythm
Summary: John Watson is a broken man in more ways than one. But not for the reasons we've been told by an unreliable narrator. Canon-compliant fix-it for S4. Post-TFP. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own these guys, don't sue me. Unless u want to inherit a very grumpy cat.

Rosie threw her spoon across the room with a "Gah!", splattering puréed carrot across the tile floor & up the cupboard door. John scrubbed a weary hand across his face, eyed the mess & stood up to retrieve the spoon & take a clean one from the drawer. Thank heavens for dishwashers.

"Rosie, sweetheart, please don't do that," he sighed, wiping her mouth & feeding her the last few spoonfuls of carrot. He was so tired. Waking every morning at 5am to get Rosie ready for the babysitter, working a full shift at the surgery & the torturous commute with a pram on London public transport made him want to just curl up on the sofa after work & sleep. Except Rosie had other ideas. He was starting to understand those women who lost their minds in the months following childbirth. And he didn't have the hormones to contend with. How did people do this? It was hard enough with Mary here but, without her, John felt like he was drowning. And his rage was getting more & more difficult to keep a lid on. He found himself silently cursing his deceased wife for leaving him with this.

His addiction to adrenaline had been a recurrent problem in his life so he'd forced himself away from the danger and towards the safe choice - Mary. Except she wasn't safe. Yet for all that he'd been climbing the walls a month into his marriage, the discovery of his wife's dangerous other life wasn't even enough to feed his addiction. If anything it was annoying that it caused him more of a distraction from... what, exactly? He was constantly running, seemingly each time jumping from the frying pan into the fire. It was equal parts craving the opportunity to just stop the world and get off and scrabbling for something, anything to focus his constant bubbling lava just beneath the surface that he'd suppressed for as long as he could remember. He wasn't even sure what the reason was anymore if he'd ever really known.

After cleaning up & putting his daughter to bed, he sank into the sofa & closed his eyes. Was this his life from now on? Existing day to day, no time or energy to focus on anything but getting through the next 24 hours? The funny thing was that it wasn't Mary whom he missed when he closed his eyes. He hadn't seen Sherlock on a regular basis since his babysitting duties and the last time he had... their friendship was fractured and fragile, no doubt in part due to the events of the past few months and his subsequent meltdown at Sherlock's apparent drug use and indifference. Or so it had seemed. What actually transpired was that he'd been unforgivably terrible to a man who, once again, risked life & limb to save him from himself. It occurred to him that he'd never even said 'thank you' or 'I'm sorry' yet Sherlock was the one walking on eggshells around him. How did that work?

He reached for his phone, pulling up Sherlock's message thread and hesitating over the keys after the first stroke of the 'H', not really knowing what he was wanting to say. Before he could continue, his phone beeped.

May I help you, John? - SH

His thumb bounced on the send button for a few seconds before hitting send.

How r u? - JW

He frowned, the obvious lack of anything else to say glaring at him in blue tones from the screen.

Bruising has gone & fracture is almost healed. Thanks for checking. - SH

OK, goodnight - JW

Goodnight, John - SH

John threw his phone across the sofa, irritated. Sherlock was being so..NICE. Kind. Accommodating. And John hated it. He missed their easy friendship from the previous year, before a DVD-sending, assassin, dead wife & the Holmes family skeletons falling spectacularly out of the closet. Now every time he closed his eyes, he could see Sherlock's blood gleaming against the cold, clinical mortuary floor as he stared up at him, eyes wide & hurting, as he took every punch & kick that he had inflicted upon him. And he would have taken so much more. He would have died if John had deemed him deserving and, for that fact alone, his blood boiled with rage at his utter & complete descent into abhorration. The last time he'd seen Sherlock, he'd had a slap around the face larger than any he'd care to repeat.

...

Sherlock had rushed down the stairs to help John with Rosie's pram as he struggled to hold open the front door. Taking hold of the front wheels, he helped John to lift the pram up to 221B, carefully watching his step and keeping a watchful eye on Rosie to ensure her safety. Once inside the unusually tidy flat, Sherlock did a quick sweep of the room, snatching his scalpel from the coffee table and shoving it into a drawer. He began tidying the untidy kitchen table, hastily moving glassware into the sink out of Rosie's reach, almost frantic in his rush to make the room safe.

"Sherlock, you don't need to do this," he said quietly, "Rosie is fine in her car seat."

"I'll only be a second, just let me-"

John strode up to Sherlock who was frantically twirling about the kitchen and reached his arm out to grip Sherlock's bicep

"Sherlock! JUST STOP!"

As John's hand made contact with Sherlock's arm, Sherlock flinched & his eyes snapped to John's, wide & panicked. The reaction was involuntary on Sherlock's part and only lasted for a moment but John dropped his hand like he'd been burned. Sherlock cleared his throat & glanced down, unable to meet John's horrified stare.

"John,... I'm sorry, I didn't..."

"We need to go, I have an appointment in twenty minutes.", John blurted out, wanting to get out of there before he did or said anything further. This whole situation was fucked up and it was completely his fault. He grabbed the pram & carried it down the stairs as fast as he could, Sherlock chasing behind offering to help but he was just making it worse.

"Look, Sherlock, I'll text you, ok?" He mumbled at Sherlock as he swung open the door and hurried out into the street, mingling into the crowd before Sherlock could respond.

Sherlock slowly closed the door to 221B and leaned back wearily against it. In a sudden outburst he slammed his head backwards into the wood and exclaimed profanities into the empty hallway.


	2. Chapter 2

"So, how do you feel about your current situation, John?", Ella asked, scribbling on her notepad. Closed off, resisting, fighting.

John brought his hand to cup his chin, shifted in his seat and glanced down then back up at Ella's impassive face. She refused to fill the silence. Tapping the foot of his crossed leg mid-air, he shifted again.

"How would you feel?" He countered, mouth forming a hard line across his face, anger shining in his eyes.

"This isn't about me, John."

He nodded sharply and looked away.

"I'm angry. I'm tired. But mostly angry."

"I see, do you know why?"

"I just lost my wife and became a single parent?" He responded indignantly but it was more of a question than an answer.

"Was that a question?" She asked flatly.

"I don't know."

"How do you feel about losing Mary?"

"I'm angry."

"Can you be more specific about that?"

"Not really. Anger is pretty much a constant in my life. You think I'd be used to it by now"

Ella wrote down 'anger issues'.

"Tell me about that then," she asked flatly. "Have you always had some level of anger?"

John gripped the arm of the chair and uncrossed his legs.

"I suppose I have. My father was either screaming at us or drinking, I guess Harry got the drinking, I got the rage."

"I see. So is that why you joined the army?"

John shrugged.

"Perhaps. It certainly gave me an outlet to channel it for a while."

"Was that the only reason you miss it?"

"No."

"Care to elaborate on that?"

"I miss the... Sense of purpose."

"You miss the thrill too?"

John hummed in response.

"Is that what Sherlock represented to you? In the beginning?"

"Why is this suddenly about Sherlock?"

Ella leaned forward slightly in her seat.

"Is it?"

"Yes. No. Possibly, I don't- how is this relevant?"

"I'm just posing questions, John. That's my job." She paused and waited a few beats. "So how are you feeling about that?"

John smiled tightly, the edge of suspicion & anger still there.

"About Sherlock? What's to say? My wife chose to die to save him & stick the knife in one last time & then I decided that ignoring him wasn't enough so I called him a monster & beat him to a pulp instead. My best friend. So, what does that make me, eh?"

"I'm sensing regret."

John laughed.

"Regret? Yeah, good call. That's what it is. I beat him so badly he ended up in a hospital bed. And, as it turns out, he only did it on the orders of my wife, who shot him then drugged him, in order to save me from my own self-inflicted destruction. So, yeah, not too proud of myself. You could say. I'm not sure I deserve anything from anyone at this point. I went to see him and you know what happened? I went to touch him and he *flinched*. My best friend and I made him afraid of me touching him!"

"Why do you think you lost control?"

John bounced a fist on the arm of the chair.

"I don't know." He glanced away, pinching his lips together and looking up and to the right. Classic lie.

"Are you sure?"

"Hmmm." He crossed & uncrossed his legs, the fist tapping getting faster & faster.

"What drew you to Mary?"

"I thought we were talking about Sherlock?" John responded, slightly irritated.

"We are," Ella said gently, "But sometimes exploring other avenues may lead you to the answers you're struggling to find." A beat. "So, what drew you to Mary?"

John sighed.

"She was sweet. Kind. Willing to tolerate my mood swings. She represented everything I'd been missing from my life. Stability, normalcy, a home, a family. A place away from the danger & the dark places I'm drawn to."

"And is that what you want? Domesticity and all of the things that come with that?"

"Shouldn't everyone?" He asked tensely. Bingo!

Ella glanced down at her notepad, schooled her expression and looked back up to stare at John directly.

"Should. That's an interesting choice of word."

"I assure you that it wasn't intentional."

"And yet it was the word that sprung immediately to mind." Ella let her words hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "What do you think you should want from your life?"

"I don't know, what everyone else does, I suppose. Marriage, kids, someone waiting for you at home, someone to care for besides yourself."

"You have Rosie," Ella stated.

"I do. She's my responsibility. I need to provide her with the kind of life I never had. She doesn't deserve any less because she was unlucky enough to be born to a mother & father who would rather chase down criminals than attend church on a Sunday."

"Are you a religious man, John?"

"I was raised a Catholic," he shrugged.

"And how would you say that that impacted your upbringing?"

"I don't know, it gives people a sense of community, I suppose."

"People? But not you," Ella observed.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Too much concern about how others live their lives", John acquiesced. "But Mary wanted to give it another shot."

"And how did you find that?"

"Much the same," Another seat shift. "There is nothing new under the sun."

"An interesting turn of phrase?"

"One of Sherlock's," John confessed, shrugging.

"Sherlock doesn't judge you, does he?"

"He should after what I did to him." The anger was back.

"But he doesn't. How does that make you feel?"

"Worse?" He offered, eyebrows raising to his hairline and down again.

"Yet you are back in touch with him on a regular basis?"

"It's early days."

"On your part or his?"

"Mine. I'm not sure I trust myself with anyone these days."

Ella nodded knowingly and scribbled another note.

"So how are you getting on with Rosie?"

"As well as can be expected, I suppose," he sighed, "Caring for a baby isn't quite like they advertise on tv. Especially without a spouse. Mary was Rosie's main caregiver from the moment she was born, I guess I was too busy missing Sh-" He abruptly stopped speaking and looked away from Ella, clearing his throat before continuing. "Missing my freedom, I guess. I suppose I deserve my current situation given how selfish I've been."

"No one deserves grief, John."

John wiggled his eyebrows sarcastically and resumed his fist-bouncing.

"Grief? Yes. Of course."

Ella narrowed her eyes at John and shifted in her seat, placing the notepad to one side.

"John, how do you feel about Mary's death?"

"I'm... not certain." He responded hesitantly, biting his lip.

"Would you try to put it into words?"

"Sadness that Rosie will never know her mother. Anger, that I'm left with a child to care for by myself... Guilt."

"Guilt?"

"Yes, guilt."

"Do you feel that you are in some way responsible for her death?"

"Her death? No."

"Well then what?"

John stood & began pacing in front of the window, hands stuffed in his pockets. He paused & toed at the corner of the rug for a moment before continuing.

"For not loving her the way I should."

"Understandable given what she did to your friend."

John balanced on one foot & swung his leg idly across the wooden floor.

"It always comes back to Sherlock, doesn't it?"

"Does it?"

"Apparently."

Interesting, Ella noted.

"And how do you feel about that?"

"About that? Or... about...", John licked his lips and stared at his feet, hesitating & lowering his voice to a whisper. "him."

Oh. Ooooh.

"John-"

"I miss him. I miss waking up to fingers in the fridge & late-night chases through London & not knowing what adventure the brilliant madman has up his sleeve today. So, the guilt. Understandable now, right?" He swung round to face Ella and carded a slightly shaky hand through his hair.

Ella's eyes softened.

"You said when he died that there were things you wanted to say to him but couldn't...John, are you gay?"

He rolled his eyes.

"No."

Ella considered her next words carefully.

"Are you straight?"

He paused.

"No."

"I see." A moment passed to allow his words to sink in. "Have you ever been in love?"

John resumed his pacing.

"I... Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Yes."

"In the army?"

"You know the regulations prohibit that."

"That wasn't a no, though."

He kicked at the rug.

"No, it wasn't."

"Since then?"

"Yes."

"With Mary?"

"I don't-... No. No, I don't think so. Especially not after..."

He let the words hang in the air.

"With Sherlock?" Ella ventured.

John sunk back into his seat & chewed his lower lip.

"I'm not sure I even... It's complicated. Besides, he's married to his work."

Ella sighed.

"But it's a possibility which you have considered? How can you be sure?"

"Because it came up. When we first met."

"And how did he respond?"

"Said he was married to his work. That was all that mattered to him. Everything else is 'transport'. His words, not mine." John clasped his hands together on his knees. "Besides, after everything I've done to him, I don't deserve his friendship, let alone anything else."

"Is he gay?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I used to think... But lately he's been seeing The Woman."

"A woman?"

"No, he calls her 'The Woman'. She's a former... client, I guess. A professional dominatrix. She's texted him a lot."

"How often?"

"57 times in one day once."

Ella struggled to hold back a smile.

"You counted?"

John looked away.

"She changed her text alert to a rather, um, distinctive noise."

Ella nodded.

"Have you ever spoken to him about her?"

"Last month," he confessed.

"And how did it go?"

"I told him he was an idiot for not pursuing it, he told me he doesn't reply and that he had all he needed in m-" Another abrupt halt. "Turns out he does occasionally text her back."

"So nothing has happened with this woman?"

"I... Don't think so."

"Has he ever had girlfriends before?"

"One. But it was a rouse to get some information out of her for a case. He didn't seem interested in her at all."

"Has he ever had any boyfriends that you're aware of?"

"I don't know. He never said. Until last week I was sure that it wasn't his area. Dating, I mean."

"And now?"

"Now I have bigger problems than working out whether my best friend might be interested in taking the place of his substi-" He stopped himself dead in horror of the thoughts he had been about to finally admit out loud about what his marriage had meant to him. Standing again, and visibly distressed, he turned to Ella with tears in his eyes. "You see? This is my problem! I can't just be satisfied with a normal, safe hum-drum life of wife, kids, stable 9 to 5 job & without getting shot at every week. Normal lives are for normal people and I've tried to do the normal thing six ways to Sunday and I keep finding myself dragged back into the fire and, in the process, hurting people I'm supposed to care about!"

"Dragged or attracted to?" Ella countered.

"Both, I don't know!"

"How were things with Mary before she died?"

"A bit not good. I was climbing the walls and she was about doing the same, I think. She disappeared for a few months & left a note saying that she'd come back when she'd eliminated the threat to us & Rosie."

"So she also led a less than ordinary life?"

"I suppose so, yes. Why?"

"You said that you were bored with the domesticity. Yet she offered you more?"

"I... Maybe, I guess it seemed like an inconvenience at the time."

"Inconvenience?"

"An annoyance. She was supposed to be the safe one, you know?"

"Ah, I see."

"See what?"

"You said that what draws you away from that life is domesticity & its dullness compared with the attraction to the danger others provide. Mary apparently offered you both & yet..."

She let her statement hang in the air as John stared at her as though she'd slapped him. Hard.

"So is the danger really the only draw for you?"

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that perhaps it isn't safe vs. Danger that compels you, but perhaps certain people who may be able to offer both?"

John didn't respond.

"Well, I'm afraid that's our time up. Same time next week?"

...


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock waited on the lavish white sofa in the front room in Belgravia. The door opened to reveal Irene Adler in a floor-length black dress. His eyes swept up to her face.

"Hello, Mr Holmes."

...

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, coat laid across the gold-gilded chair beside the bay window.

"Relax, Sherlock," Irene purred, trailing her riding crop across the footboard, "You're in safe hands."

She walked seductively around the bed, straddled his lap and ghosted the tapered end of the leather across his jawline. Sherlock swallowed loudly and set his resolve face. Irene leaned forward and grazed her ruby red lips against his, softly at first, but then with increasing pressure as he mimicked her movements with less-than-enthusiastic motions.

Sensing that Sherlock wasn't responding to her ministrations, she pulled back and stared into his eyes.

"Why are you here, Sherlock?", she whispered in his ear.

"Because apparently I'm missing something from my life that will complete me as a person and I have been reliably informed that that someone might be you."

Irene stood, walked across to an armchair and draped herself across it suggestively.

"This isn't doing anything for you at all, is it?" She asked, glancing down at her curve-accentuating attire.

"And why would you think that?" He asked before wishing he hadn't asked such a ridiculous question.

Smirking and glancing towards his belt, he nodded in acquiescence & returned her smile. Without breaking eye contact, she yelled in the direction of the door.

"Jonathan, it seems that I may require your assistance after all! Please come in..."

Before Sherlock could speak, a well-built but shorter man with sandy blonde hair walked into the bedroom. Sherlock's pupils dilated visibly at the sight of him. He was wearing desert camo BDU trousers, caterpillar boots & had a set of dog tags hanging across his broad chest.

"Yes, Miss Adler?"

Sherlock shifted imperceptibly and Irene smirked. Sherlock opened his mouth to protest and Irene waggled her eyebrows suggestively at him.

"That will be all, thank you."

"Very well, Ma'am," he nodded, about turned and left the room.

"I wasn't aware that you had men on your staff?" Sherlock said, clearing his throat at the sudden roughness to his voice.

"As you so eloquently put it, I cater to the whims of the pathetic. Occasionally that requires certain appendages that I do not possess." She waited a beat. "Why are you really here, Sherlock?"

"For you to guide me in the ways of intimacy?"

Irene laughed.

"Just what every woman wants to hear from her lover, I'm sure."

"So, should we proceed with the arrangement?", he enquired.

"Certainly. I can call Jonathan back in if you would like to continue?", she countered. "You seem a little more receptive to him than to me."

"If you are referring to the dilation of my pupils-"

"I was thinking a little bit more obvious than that," she cooed, a smirk planted firmly across her lips. "So turns out I was right about you. Shame, I would have loved to have watched you beg for mercy."

"I do not beg," he exclaimed, aghast.

"I have it on good authority that that isn't quite true," she countered. "So, you like soldiers, huh?"

"Their lifestyle and training is of great interest to m-"

Irene laughed, interrupting his flow of words.

"Oh, Sherlock! Are you really so transparent?" He frowned deeply. "Why are you here?" Sherlock shrugged. "Wouldn't have anything to do with that handsome soldier of yours, would it?"

"John is NOT my soldier."

"You're not denying it, I notice."

"I'm not entirely sure why we're having this conversation," he sulked.

Irene stood and walked across to stand in front of Sherlock so that his nose was level with her chest. Nothing.

"Because, my dear, there is only one feature of interest in all of your cases and I wouldn't stand a snowball in hell's chance of competing with him even *if* I had the correct features." Sherlock once again looked up at her face, irritatedly. "Would you care for some tea?"

...

Sitting in the sun room at the back of the house, Irene poured the steaming hot tea into delicate China cups before setting the teapot on the table and offering Sherlock milk and handing him a saucer.

"This is all very civilised," he retorted, lifting the teacup delicately to his mouth and taking a sip.

"A little civility before the day's activities begin is sometimes what the day calls for," Irene responded, taking a sip of her own tea and cupping it in her palms. "And, considering that you are paying me a not-insignificant sum to be here, providing you with what you require is merely proving you with the services agreed."

Sherlock set his teacup down on the saucer.

"I see. And what, may I ask, have you determined that I require which does not require the use of one of your bedrooms?"

"A friend," she offered bluntly. "A listening ear and a sounding board to counter the inexperience you have in this area."

"And what area would that be?"

"Love," she offered, more of a statement than a question. "That is why you're here, isn't it? John Watson is harbouring under the mistaken belief that you and I are - involved - and so you have come here in order to demonstrate both to him and to yourself that what you need is a good dinner with an attractive woman to assist you in finding happiness." She paused. "Am I right?" Sherlock stared at her and picked up his teacup once again. "I thought so. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Sherlock, but that's not how this works. You cannot simply choose who and when you fall in or out of love." She paused & raised a suggestive eyebrow at him. "But then I suspect you are already well-aware of that inconvenient fact."

"Why is everyone under the impression that I'm in love with my former flatmate?"

Irene smiled sympathetically.

"Oh, Sherlock. Is the answer to that question really necessary?"

Sherlock sighed wearily.

"I know a lost cause when I see one," he answered quietly.

"Only because he thinks he isn't good enough for you."

Sherlock responded with a raised eyebrow to which she tutted.

"I know what people like, remember?"

"Nonsense! What was it you said? If I loved you then I'd avoid your nose & teeth too?" He let his words hang for a few moments.

"Perhaps it isn't just about you? You're not the first man in John's life, are you?"

Sherlock drew back from the table and scowled.

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Because men like John Watson are invariably drawn to similar situations over and over, never understanding why. So who is the other man? I suppose you know him?"

"I wouldn't betray John's confidence with idle gossip."

Irene took a moment to process his words and come up with a solution.

"Fine. Let me try then. He's someone John met in the army, possibly a senior officer. Tall, handsome, well-defined cheekbones at a guess. Reluctance not on John's part but on the other person's. Never came to anything but they're still a question mark that will never be answered. How did I do?"

Sherlock took a sip of his tea.

"Right on the nose then," Irene chirped, "Well that's a good start. Rome wasn't built in a day but knowing that this isn't his first rodeo helps somewhat." Irene reached across to pick up the teapot & hesitated. "You know, you could just pin him to a wall and snog him senseless until he caves?" Sherlock's expression fell in horror. "I'm just saying. I think you'd be surprised what he might be receptive to if you just give him that look I've seen you hide from him on several occasions."

"What look?," he responded indignantly.

"Oh the one that says 'I'd have you right here on this table if you weren't so straight'!" She wagged a finger at him, "And don't even attempt to deny it, Mr The-Only-Person-I'm-Interested-In-Impressing-Is-My-Soldier." At Sherlock's frown, she confirmed, "I know that you didn't solve that puzzle for my benefit. You weren't searching for my approval, you looked straight to John. Congratulations, by the way, he was about 4 seconds away from giving me a quite dazzling territorial display of ownership over you."

"Nonsense!"

"Believe what you will. But I've seen that look a thousand times, you can't beat biology. As a chemist, you should know that."

"Well, be that as it may, he's more likely to run off with the circus than be receptive to any advances from me, I'm afraid. And after what happened, I fear that he's too afraid to ever touch me again."

"It takes time, Sherlock. And it's not really you that he's fighting. It's himself. Give him time, he needs to work these things out for himself. And I'm afraid that's a problem you can't fix with that sexy little brain of yours."


	4. Chapter 4

"Listen, mate, it's about time I headed home." Greg offered, downing the remainder of his pint and shrugging at John. "We should do this again soon."

"Definitely, it's been nice to just get out of the house for a while. Rosie's with Martha tonight so I don't have a curfew. Think I'll stay and have one for the road. Hope everything works itself out."

Greg stood & shrugged on his blazer.

"Me too, mate. See you soon, eh?"

John watched as the door swung closed behind Greg. He finished off the rest of his pint as the young barman came to clear the empties from his table.

"Your date after an early night?" He smirked, nodding towards the door.

"Home to the Missus,' he acquiesced, "She has him on a short leash!"

The barman glazed an appraising eye over John, lifted the glasses & paused as he was about to walk away.

"His loss," he flung at John with a suggestive stare. John's shocked expression melted into a smirk as he realised he'd just been hit on. By the most attractive man in the room.

...

Christ, where was that Uber he'd called 20 minutes ago? It was well-past tube times and the convenient backwater pub he'd chosen to meet Greg wasn't within a decent walking distance of a main thoroughfare where he could just hail a black cab.

He shivered & pulled his coat tighter against the wind as the side door to the pub opened.

"Still here?" The barman shouted across to him.

"Waiting for a cab."

"You live far?"

"Far enough," John replied, walking over to the barman as he emptied a crate of beer bottles into the recycling "I might still be here in the morning at this rate."

The barman threw the empty crate onto a pile beside the door and smiled at John.

"I wouldn't be complaining,". He responded, giving John another appraising once-over. John definitely couldn't mistake that one.

The man was in his late-20's/early 30's, tall & slim with slicked-back black hair with piercing blue eyes. As men went, he was quite stunning. John wiggled his eyebrows and laughed.

"Was that an offer?" He quipped and the man ducked his chin.

"Depends on your response?"

John stepped into his personal space. His whole demeanour changed in a second from 'guy down the pub having a drink with his mates' to 'Three Continents Watson'. Leaning in, John hovered slightly in front of his lips.

He grabbed a handful of Mr Blue-eyes' shirt and pulled him down roughly for a lip-crushing snog. Taken a bit off-guard, the guy stumbled toward John and grabbed onto John's biceps to regain his balance. John pushed him backwards against the wall, pressed into him from chest to hips and thrust his tongue between his lips. Responding with enthusiasm, the barman looped his fingers into John's belt loops and pulled him forwards. A curl fell loose from the fixings of his hair gel and brushed John's face.

John jumped back as though he'd been stung. A cab beeped its horn from behind him and John stumbled backwards wide-eyed and panting. He stared in shock at the slightly dishevelled man in front of him. His pronounced Cupid's bow was kiss-swollen & he could see the stubble rash emerging on his jaw. His curls has fallen from his slicked-back hair and those eyes. Shit.

"I'm sorry, I..." John replied distractedly, about turning and swiftly heading for the cab as it pulled up. The barman just watched, still slightly dazed as the cab pulled away.


	5. Chapter 5

"So... I pulled someone last night," John offered as a greeting. Ella nodded impartially.

"Someone?", she queried.

"A guy."

"I see. And how did that go?"

John laughed harshly as he wrung his palms together on his knees and stared at the rug.

"Well, it was going very well until I realised that I'd chosen the one guy in the room who looked like Sherlock. Kind of put a dampener on the mood." John glanced down, embarrassed at actually saying that out loud. He looked up sheepishly. "Same eyes."

Ella raised an eyebrow at him and indulged in a tiny smirk and nodded knowingly.

"An unusual piercing blue. Was that because he did look like him? Or because it *wasn't* him?"

John stood, walked across to the window and folded his arms protectively across his chest.

"I... don't know." Liar, his internal voice spat at him. He mentally swatted it away.

"Well, how did you feel?"

"It was good. Until I freaked out and ran."

"Why do you think you ran, John?"

"Because I can't do this. I have Rosie, she's my life now."

"John...," Ella warned. Damn, she wasn't going to let him away with this one. "You aren't only a parent. You're a person too. You have emotional needs just as you did before."

"That's what's always been my problem," he replied frantically, "Sherlock was definitely onto something with his 'everything else is transport' thing"

"And how has that served him for the past few years? Did he not have a drug relapse last year?"

"Well, yeah. Just after the wedding. But that was for a case, I think."

"You think?"

"Well, yeah, what else could it have been?"

Ella adjusted her legs and tapped her pen on her notepad. She stared at an invisible spot on the carpet in front of her feet and pursed her lips. Patient confidentiality was above all else. But her sessions with Sherlock had revealed a truth that she couldn't share with John. Not that he had needed to actually say it; it seeped out of every pore of his body the second he'd said John's name.

She finally looked up and schooled her face. John narrowed his eyes at her and shifted in his seat. Vatican cameos.

"Ella... What are you not telling me?"

She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose & straightened her back.

"You know that I can't betray the privilege between myself and a client."

John opened his mouth to say something but abruptly closed it again, considering her carefully chosen words for a few moments. Wait, something...

"Piercing blue. You said 'piercing blue'. I don't think I ever mentioned anything about what Sherlock looks like. Have you met him?"

Ella remained stoic.

"He came to you, didn't he? When? When I got married?" Silence. "No, not then. But when else-" he trailed off as it hit him. The letter. "He came to you to try to help me, didn't he?"

Ella looked slowly down & up in a thoughtful gesture, not quite a nod but enough to confirm John's theory. John froze, his hands gripping the arm of his chair until the tips of his fingers turned white. How could he have not realised? He looked down at his knees, tears in his eyes as he blinked them away hastily. God, he really was a monster.

"John... Are you ok?"

"No, not really," he confessed, his voice cracking. "What have I done? He doesn't deserve me at all."

"We're all human, John," Ella offered gently.

"Even me. That's what Sherlock said too. I've made a right mess of this, haven't I?"

"Nothing is unfixable, John," she said quietly and bit her lip before continuing, "Not with you. Not when it comes to ... Certain people." She fixed him with a stare as his eyes widened at her words, eyes questioning. She smiled warmly at him.

"What are you saying?"

"I think I've said more than enough and certainly more than I should," she admonished, "He's your friend, John. Talk to him and no hiding this time. Cards on the table. ALL of them!"

He nodded & sat up, battle ready.

"So, same time next week?"


	6. Chapter 6

Mrs Hudson greeted John with a huge grin and a warm hug before ushering him in from the rain and up the stairs to 221b. Sherlock was standing in the kitchen in his dressing gown and lab glasses with a beaker in one hand and a blow torch in the other. Upon seeing John, he abruptly switched off the torch, slammed the beaker down with a thud and yanked the glasses off his face. His face was flushed red & covered in a damp sheen, his curls sticking to his forehead. He hastily wiped his forehead on his sleeve and moved to the kettle, avoiding John's gaze.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," John said firmly in a kind dismissal. She gave him a knowing smile.

"Not a problem, dear. I'll be downstairs if you need anything."

When she had closed the door behind her, John turned to Sherlock who was rummaging in the kitchen cupboards frantically looking for something. John slowly, carefully walked across the kitchen and ghosted a hand across Sherlock's shoulder and down his left arm from behind, oh-so-careful not to put any pressure on his arm. His hand came to rest low on Sherlock's bicep where it remained as Sherlock stilled, frozen for a moment, a sharp intake of breath passing his lips before turning his head and shoulders to glance at John. John held his gaze, firm but kind, as he nodded at the cupboard above Sherlock's head.

"Whatever you have to hand is fine." John tilted his head and creased his brow, eyes glistening, his hand still placed on Sherlock's arm. "Thank you." He wasn't thanking him for the tea, Sherlock realised belatedly as John withdrew his arm. Sherlock almost reached out grabbed his wrist before second-guessing that thought. The kettle clicked itself off, the sound breaking Sherlock's thoughts. He poured the boiling water into two mugs, added a couple of teabags and carefully poured milk into each before handing one to John. John's fingers brushed Sherlock's as he took the cup from his hand, John's rapid glance at Sherlock's reaction underscoring that it hadn't entirely been accidental.

Sherlock glanced down, the intensity in John's studying gaze too much for him to compute while his brain was still trying to comprehend the buzz he'd received from John's light caress. He wrapped both hands around his steaming mug &hugged it to his chest protectively.

"How are you today, John? How's Rosie?"

John smiled sadly at Sherlock's thoughtfulness. Six months ago he'd have pointed John toward the kettle & told him to help himself while he dissected an eyeball next to the plate of , to be honest, John missed that. Sherlock was still being so cautious with him and he hated it. He wanted the old Sherlock back, the one who flung himself into his endeavours with ruthless abandon, not this version who second-guessed every step in case he got burned.

John leant back against the table and placed his mug to one side.

"We're both fine, thanks for asking. But that's not what I came here to talk about."

Sherlock's face betrayed the sudden drop in the pit of his stomach. John straightened as he realised he'd just scared the hell out him for the second time that week.

"It's all fine, Sherlock. I just wanted to apologise. Properly. For what I did to you."

Sherlock's eyes widened in fear as he rushed to assure John that no apology was necessary but John held up a placating hand. Sherlock paused mid-panic.

"What I did to you that day was unforgivable and yet you almost died to save my sorry arse. Again. Quite why you even let me in here I still don't really understand, I'd have tossed me out without so much as a 'don't let the door hit you on the way out'. But, by some miracle from a deity I stopped believing in a long time ago, you haven't. So the least I owe you is an apology and a bloody lot more besides. I don't know what I did to deserve Mary and her deception, probably something to do with me being an utter cock to the people who love me most, eh" He quirked an eyebrow at Sherlock in a half-hearted joke but he struggled to hold his head to meet Sherlock's gaze. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. The way you flinched the other day...", John paused, glancing up at the ceiling & crossing his arms across his chest defensively, biting his lower lip as his eyes filled with tears, "I''m so, so, sorry. I can never fix what I did to you. And I made that your reaction to me."

Sherlock hugged his tea tighter to his chest as he looked up through long eyelashes at John's lined and weary face. He knew that John's words had stung; his fists had left more than just physical scars. And his physical wounds healed faster than his emotional ones. Part of him wanted to just forget it had ever happened but he knew that, for both their sakes, it had to be properly acknowledged for what it had been before they could ever hope to move past it. What Sherlock wanted from John he could never have, despite Irene's protests, but he just wanted his John back. The John who hadn't been broken by his death and Mary's betrayal.

And that John was staring at him, eyes full of tears, underneath the eye bags and the lines he'd acquired these past few years. Sherlock didn't know what to say so he said nothing.

John, taking his silence for rejection, stiffened and took a deep breath before gripping the edge of the table to lower himself down onto one knee and then both in front of Sherlock.

"I once remember a man getting on his knees in an underground train car to beg his best friend for forgiveness for a betrayal for which he thought he would never be forgiven," he said, clasping his hands in front of him in a prayer position, "even though I know now that he had nothing to be forgiven for." John stared up at Sherlock. "You can ask me to leave and I'll respect your choice. But, if you ever need me, I'm yours." Sherlock slowly smiled at his words. John breathed a sigh and let out a nervous laugh. "But, you know, use a phone or something next time. DVDs from my dead wife are a bit dramatic, don't you think?"

Sherlock placed his tea down on the counter, his dressing gown flapping around them both as he leaned down to grab John by the shoulders and pull him to his feet.

"Get up, you daft git," Sherlock admonished, hands still gripping John's shoulders as he raised an eyebrow at him. John looked at him questioningly one final time and Sherlock smiled sheepishly before enveloping John in a gentle embrace. John took no time in overcoming his surprise as he wrapped both arms underneath Sherlock's shoulders & around his back. Sherlock surprised him by stooping his long frame & burying his face in John's neck. John breathed in the smell of laundry detergent, Prada aftershave & that uniquely Sherlock smell that he'd forgotten at some point in the last few years. It was a heady mix. God, he loved this man.

Suddenly the door swung open & Sherlock abruptly pulled back from John, his face beaming with heat.

"Hello, gentlemen. I'm sorry, did I come at a bad time?"

John scowled at both the sudden loss of heat and the reason for it. Irene sodding Adler. He looked from Irene to Sherlock, nodded curtly, cleared his throat and started for the door

"Oh, John dear, don't leave on my account!", she drawled with a smirk & a wink towards Sherlock. Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but John waved him away.

"Look, I need to go and collect Rosie from nursery. Text me if you're free tomorrow, I have a few days off. Or if you're otherwise occupied," he added gruffly, "it's fine. Just another time."

And with a withering look at Irene as he passed, he was down the stairs & gone before Sherlock could find the words to stop him. At the loud slam of the front door, Sherlock turned to glare angrily at Irene.

"What the HELL did you think you were doing?"

Irene picked up John's now lukewarm tea and took a swig.

"Helping you?"

Sherlock raised his hands in a frustrated gesture.

"By what, exactly? Making John think that I'll be spending the next three days being whipped by you with reckless abandon?"

Irene waved his protests away nonchalantly.

"You should be thanking me. You wanted proof I was right? That man is greener than Kermit the frog right now. There's your proof. You're welcome, by the way."

Sherlock just turned back to his forgotten blowtorch.

"Get out!"


	7. Chapter 7

John put Rosie to bed an hour ago & currently sat nursing a tumbler of whiskey, mobile in hand. His fingers were itching to text Sherlock but he didn't know what would make it worse; if Sherlock didn't respond or if he did with some annoyed message about being busy.

What did he expect? For him to apologise and his friend to just read his mind & fall into his arms? A man who, until Irene Adler showed up, had shown no interest whatsoever in any kind of romantic human interaction?

John downed his whiskey and stared at the television. Great, Fatal Attraction. Just what he needed.

...

Sherlock lay flat on the sofa staring at the ceiling cursing Irene Adler's existence. Bloody meddling woman.

11.30pm. He checked his phone. Nothing. His fingers hovered over the screen as he pulled up John's number. He might be asleep already.

Ah, sod it.

IS ROSIE SLEEPING YET? - SH

To Sherlock's relief, the response was immediate.

SHE WENT DOWN A FEW HOURS AGO. ENJOY YOUR EVENING? - J

Sherlock gritted his teeth at Irene for the third time that day.

IRENE DIDN'T STAY LONG.

The response that time was slightly longer in coming.

AH, RIGHT. OK.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

NOTHING HAPPENED. YOU FREE TOMORROW MORNING?

SURE, WHAT'S THE PLAN?

Sherlock hesitated.

BREAKFAST?

...

Sherlock heard John's footsteps on the stairs at exactly 9.30am. He opened the door just in time to see Sherlock turn and deposit the bacon onto the plates. He was dressed immaculately in a suit & shirt with a navy & white striped chef's apron.

"Morning, John. Coffee?"

John smiled in greeting & walked across the kitchen to take the cup from Sherlock. Sherlock smiled softly at him and allowed his fingers to linger a moment longer than necessary. God, he was pathetic. Thankfully John didn't seem to mind.

Sherlock continued to serve the breakfast as John took a seat on a stool at the table.

"This looks lovely," he commented, nodding at the bacon, scrambled eggs & toast currently being plated up by Sherlock. "Didn't want it to go to waste, eh?"

"It's not for Irene if that's what you're implying," Sherlock mumbled, flipping the eggs with a spatula.

John held up his hands in surrender.

"Hey, look, it's clearly none of my-"

Sherlock let out a frustrated groan, dumped the eggs onto a plate, threw the frying pan into the sink with a clatter & turned to face his guest.

"Oh, for christ's sake, John, how many times... I'M GAY!"

Jon planted his mug on the table with a clatter as he stared at Sherlock with his mouth agape. Right. Ok. Message received. Holy shit.

"So you didn't spend the night with Irene?"

"No!"

"And you're not just doing this because she left?""

"No!"

"Then why-"

Sherlock frustratedly untied his apron, tore it from around his neck and threw it onto the kitchen counter.

"Because it's not *Irene* that I'm attempting to win ov-"

Sherlock abuptly fell silent, eyes wide.

John stared in shock. He couldn't be saying...

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and shot John an exasperated & terrified stare.

"Look, just, forget I said anything. It doesn't... I don't..."

John quietly stood and walked around the table until he was standing in front of Sherlock. He stepped into Sherlock's space, glanced down &, when he looked up, he had turned on the full 3 Continents Watson charm, his eyes dancing & his mouth curled up in a seductive smirk. Sherlock stepped back & hit the counter as John followed until he was pressed up against it. John reached up a hand to brush a perfect curl from Sherlock's face and gently caressed his cheek. Sherlock involuntarily closed his eyes and leaned into John's palm. John could see his chest rapidly rising & falling with each breath as he struggled to remain impassive.

"Sherlock, open your eyes." He didn't comply, simply leaned further into John;s touch. John laughed. "Do I have to make that an order?"

Sherlock's eyes flew open, a soft gasp escaping from his lips as he could feel the heat creeping into his face. John was momentarily taken aback by Sherlock's response, but slowly leaned in to graze Sherlock's ear with his lips.

"If I'd known me ordering you around had that effect, I'd have done it a long time ago."

He slowly pulled back, holding Sherlock's heated gaze & smirking. He ran a hand up Sherlock's shirt and cupped the other side of his face. He leaned up towards Sherlock, pulling him down halfway as John pressed his lips to Sherlock's in a gentle caress. Sherlock lurched forward, grabbed a fistful of John;'s shirt & ran his tongue along John's bottom lip, capturing John's moan as he opened his mouth. John spun Sherlock 180 degrees and backed him up against the kitchen wall, Sherlock slumping against it as John pressed himself fully against Sherlock, in a heated kiss that had them both gasping for air. John pulled away as Sherlock caught his breath & zeroed in on the pale expanse of skin between Sherlock's jaw and shirt collar. Sherlock moaned rather loudly as John began shushing him while attempting to stop himself from following suit at the sight of a dishevelled, kiss-swollen appearance, his unruly curls falling across his forehead like something out of a GQ spread.

"God, you're gorgeous," John commented between kisses.

Sherlock lowered his voice to a purr.

"Says the man who has a smirk that could stop me dead at 50 paces." He smiled knowingly. "So... not gay, huh?"

John bristled.

"I suppose 'not straight either' though I've never really wanted to label it. Not the first time though."

"Major James Sholto."

John smiled at him and looked down.

"Why am I not surprised you deduced that?"

"I can't entirely take credit for that one."

John chuckled. Which turned into a hearty laugh until the tears were running down his face.

"I'm sorry," he gasped between giggles, "I just... I'm a bloody moron!"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Well, in your defence, you did think I had feelings for Irene Adler," Sherlock dramatically rolled his eyes and sighed, "Although I can't imagine what ever gave you that idea."

"She's smart. She held your interest. She's hot."

Sherlock pinned John with a stare.

"You're smart. You hold my interest." He paused and watched as John looked away awkwardly, subconsciously rubbing a hand across his weary eyes. Sherlock reached out to raise John's chin. "And it's not just the nice girls who like a soldier. You're hot." Sherlock lowered his voice & cleared his throat, "Especially when you're in Captain Watson mode."

John raised an eyebrow & Sherlock blushed.

"What? Oh come on! You know you are, I know what your lads called you."

"'My lads'?"

"Those fit, handsome blokes you used to command in Afghanistan."

"Who all had page 3 girls in their bunks," John retorted.

"Not James though," Sherlock corrected.

John laughed & shook his head.

"You seem awfully keen on asking about my ex, would you like his number?" Sherlock looked away guiltily. "Ok, so you already have that! What's up?"

"This isn't my area."

John nodded firmly & raised his eyebrows at Sherlock before suddenly cupping Sherlock's face & hungrily kissing him. He ran his tongue along Sherlock's lips as Sherlock melted into his touch and buried his hands under John's jumper. John ran a slow hand down Sherlock's chest & round to ghost round his hip, settling just above his waistband at the base of his spine. Pulling away from Sherlock's lips, John whispered in Sherlock's ear.

"No, it's mine."

Flushed cheeks & fire-glazed eyes bore into the soldier before him as he threaded their fingers together & pulled John toward the hallway.

"Then correct me, Doctor."

...

A/N: Thanks for sticking with me. It may still be 1895 but it always comes back to the two of them against the rest of the world.


End file.
